When Do We Ask

I can feel my blood
slowly spill
onto to the street
like an insipid drip

A common place action
to this city's heartbeat
that leaves few surprised
and as I drift into death
I ask
is this how it's supposed to feel

There was is no pain
not at this point
as the bullet holes mattered less
than my last thoughts

You read books
see movies
always asked what if
but when you live it
this thing called a slow death
nothing compares to it

Life
and all its grand wonderment
will be left behind . . .
I feel cold
and my breaths have grown shallow
as time becomes a meaningless
moment within a thousand other moments
soon to be forgotten

No, I don't want to die
though
we all will
but not like this
not knowing that there is but one or two minutes left
to ask
for forgiveness